


find what you love (and let it kill you)

by futuredescending



Category: Kingsman (Movies) RPF
Genre: Abrupt endings ahoy, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Post-Letters Live
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 21:44:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11609550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futuredescending/pseuds/futuredescending
Summary: Taron really only ever loses his chill on two occasions.(Lies, his mates would say. He never had any to begin with. His mates are bastards.)





	find what you love (and let it kill you)

**Author's Note:**

> Ridiculous, pointless filth brought on by all this renewed Firtherton business. Blaming AnnaofAza for convincing me to post it.

Taron really only ever loses his chill on two occasions.

(Lies, his mates would say. He never had any to begin with. His mates are bastards.)

The first is right before he’s expected to perform, be it a film shoot, a play, or an interview. Nervous energy emanates off him in droves, he’s been told. While it tends to put other people off and make them anxious in all other situations, among his fellow actors, it’s energy, electric and alive as that first hit of nicotine. Anyway, once he’s lost in the moment, he’s usually fine. Live and let go.

The second, much more regrettably, occurs in Colin’s presence.

“So, yeah, Croatia’s really lovely. Gorgeous. The countryside especially. I even stayed on a few days after filming to go tromping about. Everyone’s so nice there.” It’s a double no-chill feature tonight with Live Letters and Colin Fucking Firth. Taron can feel his heart jackrabbiting out of his chest, face growing hotter and hotter, his mouth opening, refusing to close, the words that just keep tumbling out at a frenetic, uncontrollable pace, heedless of his brain screaming to shut the fuck up.

And Colin, bless him, is listening attentively, resembling only slightly a befuddled owl behind his thick-rimmed specs and tousled hair whilst not betraying an ounce of boredom or desperation to remove himself from the crazy person in his midst. “I’ve never had the chance to spend any appreciable amount of time in the country. Your enthusiasm makes me think I should prioritise a visit sooner rather than later.”

“You should! Absolutely, you should. You’d love it. It’s not very touristy at all. And Jaime, Jamie Foxx, right? He has this knack for finding the dodgiest club in every city and town we visited and just making friends with every single person in the room by the end of the night. Fucking chillest bloke.”

Unlike him.

Worse still, there never comes the moment when he reaches Peak Spazz and finally shorts out. No, he’s aware of every single painful fucking second until the stage manager calls out for Colin to get ready, and he’s spared Colin’s unrelenting attention for the briefest of moments and can finally breathe again.

But then his mouth decides to go rogue again. “Colin…” And Colin turns back around and glances back at him and Taron’s mind goes terrifyingly blank. “Uh...it was, uh, really nice of you to ask me out tonight. Or thinking of me. I mean, asking me to do this with you tonight. I love it. I mean, performing. Live performing. Or any performing. With you. And it’s nice to see you again too. Always.”

There’s a brief pause while Colin presumably parses out his muddled English before the corners of his mouth turn up and his lips part, showing an upper row of teeth, genuinely pleased, as he reaches out a hand to brand Taron’s shoulder with a touch. “The pleasure’s always mine. I’m delighted you said yes.”

“Would you like to get drinks after?” Taron asks, trying and failing to sound cool and casual. “Might be nice to catch up some more. But if not, that’s alright too. Obviously you have an early night. Maybe some other time then.” And just like that, he’s half turning to slink away in order to find a quiet corner in which to self-immolate.

“I’d like that, actually.”

Everything goes very still, very cool: sound, his breathing, his entire being.

He turns back around, scratching the back of his neck at a non-existent itch. “Yeah?”

“No need to sound so surprised,” Colin says, smile smaller now, but no less sincere. Taron can still see a hinting gleam of teeth between his lips. “For the record, I’ve sorely missed your company as well.”

Finally, he can look Colin in the eye without letting his gaze nervously skitter away like a shy cat and let it warm him all over and flutter low in his belly. Not the vaguely ill-inducing sensation of before. This is...pleasantly fluttery. The way he’d feel after a long day of shooting, so tired as to be delirious, sprawling on the couch next to an equally exhausted Colin, thighs and shoulders and whole sides leaning against each other because they were the only things holding each other up. Colin would lean in too close and sway too much and smile too freely, and Taron, punch drunk, would say too many stupid things just to see that mouth grow wider and wider.

“Alright,” Taron says with a decisive nod, jamming his hands in his trouser pockets and rocking back on his heels. “It’s a date.” And then: mortification. “Er. I mean...you know what I mean...”

“Do I?” Colin is usually the epitome of polite, able to bend to any unexpected turn in the conversation with the utmost graciousness. Which is why Taron’s left reeling when Colin’s little smile turns into a little smirk. His congenial gaze darkens into something, well, smouldering. 

It leaves Taron on uneven footing, plunged into a wholly unknown territory whose signs he’s suddenly unsure he’s reading correctly. There’s subtlety, and then there’s just wishful thinking.

So, he plays it safe, because he’s made a fool of himself too many times today already. “ _Colin_ ,” he laughs a little, maybe does a wince-inducing little snort, and it doesn’t even sound all that forced. Well done, him. “Break a leg, yeah?”

Colin’s expression clears up, like clouds parting from the sun. “I’ll see you on the stage,” he says, before turning to the doors that will lead him into the spotlight once more.

 

_____

 

They all take their bow and file off the stage to a roar of applause that sounds even more voluminous in the cathedral. It goes down smashingly, of course. Taron didn’t royally fuck up his guest performance, and Live Letters could maintain its dignified reputation as a quality charity event.

Colin was, well, of course Colin was amazing and breathtaking and mesmerising and all sorts of other adjectives sputtering about Taron’s head that he’s finally learned to keep to himself.

(He will never recover from that one idly curious Google search, ever.)

The mania returns, swept in by a tidal wave of elation from a job well done. He feels it in his bones. These are the moments he lives and breathes for: transporting people, even if only for a time, to somewhere else in someone else’s story.

Amidst the backstage crowd of happy cast and crew congratulating each other in a sort of half-relieved, half-giddy shock, Taron briefly considers nipping out the side doors round back for a victorious smoke, but a hand warms his shoulder instead.

“Shall we make a break for it while we still can?” Colin’s voice is low and shiver-inducing in his ear, the heat of his body a wall at Taron’s back.

“Don’t you have to make your goodbyes?” Taron asks, turning his head a little over his shoulder to catch the faint edge of glasses and a pepper grey curl of hair.

“I’ve already texted Livia I’ll be late. She says hello, by the way, and while she’s sorry to not have greeted you properly tonight, she’s sure you’ll come round soon for a visit.”

There’s so much to unpack in those seemingly innocuous two sentences, that Taron’s left reeling with the implications, pliable in Colin’s hands and explanations that he only nods dumbly, squeaking out a feeble, “Sounds good, yeah,” before Colin is steering him with a gentle but firm hand towards the side exit, not the back door where, undoubtedly, many a fan are gathering.

It feels a little like moving through a dream, slipping between bodies, no one bothering to stop them, just giving little nods of acknowledgement, oblivious. Then the crowds thin and the walls narrow into the small little hall that precedes the exit, and then they are out into the balmy evening, still and quiet.

“Where would you like to go?” Colin asks.

“I don’t know.” To be honest, his invitation had been impulsively issued, already certain Colin would decline. “Didn’t think you’d actually, uh, agree to it.” Now that Taron thinks about it, which is more thought than he’s put into this whole mad idea in the first place, it’s getting to be last call soon anyway.

Colin smirks, like he’s pleased to have proven Taron wrong. Wisdom of experience over age or something like that. “Is your hotel nearby?”

“Four Seasons,” Taron admits. “Uh, Park Lane, though?”

“I’ll call us a cab,” Colin says, and before Taron can open his mouth, Colin has his phone out, painstakingly pecking at the keys while squinting down at them like he can barely make them out.

While Colin chats on the phone with the cab operator, Taron leans back against the side of the cathedral and can’t help watching every single little gesture and movement he makes. He knows there are endless videos and photos of him caught gazing adoringly at Colin, but it’s simply because Colin has always been the most interesting person in any room, anywhere, anytime.

There’s the way he carries himself, always consciously aware of his height and 50 metres of limbs, and therefore as careful and elegant as a giraffe because of it. There’s the way he speaks, always so polite and self-effacing, and the way he listens, like his conversation partner is the most fascinating person in the world. Despite all the things that really ought to divide them—experience, career, age, wisdom, milestones, sensibilities—Colin has never once made Taron feel stupid or deficient. The first person older than him other than family members who gazed at Taron with something other than condescending tolerance.

And then there’s the inconvenient fact that Colin has starred in many a racy dream since they first met.

So. Right.

Taron knows what any number of therapists would have to say about that. Daddy issues. Abandonment issues. Etcetera. And maybe...well, maybe Taron has a tendency to admire older gents in his life a wee bit too much. Gets too easily awed and starstruck. Always falls a little bit in love with any older bloke who gives him an ounce of affection.

But older men have come and gone out of his life as fast as his own actual father had done. Puppy crushes soon settled into nice “ping each other on Twitter” every once in awhile acquaintanceships and running into each other at parties, film promotion, or industry events. Tom. Hugh. Channing. Pedro.

Somewhere along there, Colin stuck around.

Texts here and there, ranging from congratulations on obtaining new roles or commiserations over losing out on others. Occasional check-ins, the usual _how are you’s_. Sometimes, a photo here or there: the enviable back garden in Chiswick and Italy, a pretty sunset while on location, Joanie the Cat balled up into some impossible twisted knot of fluff on his lap. On one memorable occasion, a butt dial.

 _It seems my arse was thinking of you_ , Colin had commented upon the entire affair, which was a very Colin thing to say.

(Taron took a screenshot of the exchange and carefully saved it amongst all his ridiculous rolls of selfies.)

In return, Taron’s life felt woefully less sophisticated. Some shots of Croatia here. A sneaky photo of Jamie Foxx napping in a pile of hay in full Little John regalia. An update on the muddy conditions at whatever music festival he had attended that week. But Colin always had something to say about each image or message, a warm open remark that invited response, and soon a genuine conversation was born and bred for the rest of the night.

He’s brought out of his musings by Colin speaking. “Aren’t we fortunate, an available cab was in the neighbourhood. I had them park two blocks up.”

Further away from the scene of the crime. “Clever,” Taron says. He can’t help from smiling to himself, pleased, like it’s a shared secret.

In a way, it is. Something very conspiratorial about what they’re doing. The way they walk to the taxi with something closer to haste than casualness, or how they anxiously dart their eyes to anyone they pass, searching for signs of recognition on their faces. Taron feels almost guilty about it, though he can’t say why.

The cab is idling along the kerb just as Colin said it would be, and as soon as they slip in and buckle up, Colin gives the driver the address of Taron’s hotel, making a final decision for the both of them once and for all.

It’s both a weight lifted off his shoulders and a low, anxious churning in his stomach all at once. There’s a scrap of space between them in the back seats. A teasing sense of close warmth and solidity from another human body. Colin’s knees almost brush the divider. His hands lay lightly curled over his thighs, folded primly together. His back easily moulds to the seat, shoulders casually slumped in repose.

 _He’s so thin_ , Taron thinks. _Kingsman_ thin, even. Effortlessly so, perhaps, given Colin’s natural frame. It’s an entire career made from that kind of unobtrusive lanky body, really. Christ, he earned his generations of adulation wearing a voluminous white blouse. _Not an action star_ , Colin is quick to remind him.

Taron glances down at himself. Chest still mostly okay. A convexing belly swift to slip out of its defined six pack once _Robinhood_ was over, softer spreading thighs. Never able to quite rid himself of childhood puppy fat unless he adopted that miserable diet of chicken salad and spinach and two-hour daily gym sessions for the rest of his life. He likes to think he’ll hold out against Hollywood pressure, but previous discussions with Hugh and Channing haven’t given him much hope. The mould’s been set. He’s slowly being worn down in order to fit into it.

The 20-minute ride is carried through in a comfortable sort of quiet, because even when he’s making Taron nervous, Colin always emanates a soothing calm, like everything is going to turn out wonderfully. His serene expression is reassuring, the stillness of his body, save for the gentle rocking of the cab taking them around corners and roundabouts, is a balm to Taron’s nervous fidgeting. The city lights warp and distort through the corner of his specs. Taron suddenly recalls the time he discovered a mushy pea daintily sitting atop them and makes a choking sound as he stifles a silly giggle.

Colin looks over at him, bemused. “What?”

“No. Nothing. It’s….” Taron waves off, rubbing at half his face and feeling his cheeks grow hot. “Adrenaline’s wearing off, I think.”

Colin mercifully lets it slide, probably because the cab is pulling up into the drive of the stately, gleaming front of the Four Seasons. There’s a bit of a battle between who will pay (Colin) and then they are sauntering through the front sliding doors into the marbled lobby and confronting the signs politely pointing them to the bar.

Colin turns to him. “Would you like a bit of privacy?” Very obliging.

“Yes, I think that would be nice. I have a room,” Taron says, quite stupidly in retrospect, but it’s all playacting now.

He leads them to the lift, pressing the button for the eighth floor, then down the corridor to a room right at the very end, feeling the weight of Colin’s presence just a half step behind him, very close, knuckles of his hand occasionally brushing against the outside of his thigh. He fishes his keycard out, managing to open the door on his first try, which pleases him greatly.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind them with a weird sense of finality, Taron realises he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He tries slipping them into his pockets, but thinks he just looks like a twat, so he ends up...sort of...waving them around, then scratching his ear, his neck, his brow. “So I don’t actually think my minibar has got much….”

In fits and starts, he shrugs off his jacket and crosses the elegant if blandly neutral hotel room to peel back the tastefully hidden door beneath the telly, revealing a colourful array of sweets and booze. “Beer’s a bit shit. Like...I can make a gin and tonic?”

“Please do,” Colin says, somehow making standing in the middle of Taron’s hotel room look completely natural.

And that invites a whole other set of troubles: the extent of Taron’s bartending skills mostly consists of popping caps off beer bottles with his teeth as a stupid party trick. Frankly, he’s lucky the ingredients of a G&T are in the name, otherwise he’d be shit out of luck. And naturally, he has no idea what the ratios of gin to tonic are supposed to be either: he just fills two hotel glass tumblers with ice, empties two nips of gin into each glass, and tops them off with the tonic water of some slim, artisanal bottle that has a minimally-designed label on it. No limes or lemons. Nothing in which to actually physically mix anything. He doesn’t think Colin would appreciate him sticking his finger in his drink, so Taron just sort of...swirls the contents of their glasses around a bit and grimaces.

“Right, cheers!” Taron says as he hands Colin his glass, hoping to make up for any deficiencies with an abundance of enthusiasm. He keeps his gaze rapt upon Colin’s face over the rim of his glass as he gulps down a mouthful of tonic.

Colin neither does a spit take nor betray any negative reaction at all, he’s just that good. Then again, his sip was decidedly conservative.

“Top marks for acting,” Taron says.

“It’s not the worst I’ve had, honestly.”

“But don’t quit my day job?”

“Perhaps not yet.” Colin smiles, just a little bit, closed mouth. “Besides, I rather enjoy your acting. It would be a massive loss for the world if you ever left us.”

Taron has to look away, slightly embarrassed, but warm all over anyhow. He’s just about reached that point where he can accept a compliment at face value without suspecting the other person of having him on, but for some reason, every word of praise falling out of Colin’s mouth still feels like a shock, impossible to develop immunity against. “Says you, who was brilliant just off reading a few letters. Had everyone spellbound, I think.”

Colin is far more gracious: a modest nod of his head in acknowledgement that neither confirms or denies. “I suppose I can still make a living off voice acting as everything else about my person goes.”

“Oh stop. You’re still gorgeous, it’s ridiculous,” Taron says without thinking, because that’s just what he does. Embarrassment, for him, is nearly a familiar state of existence. He just bowls right through it, mouth stretched wide in a stupid grin, underarms starting to sweat, humiliation prickling hotly on his skin. He briefly considers locking himself in the loo for the rest of the night and claiming food poisoning.

Colin diplomatically sets his glass down on a pad of stationary instead of directly on the wood because Livia’s probably trained him well. The thought of her makes Taron nervous (or rather, more nervous), because everything about this so far has felt not all that different to carrying out some illicit affair.

Which is ridiculous. Taron’s never been involved in any affairs from any angle. Also, Colin very clearly loves his wife. And it’s not like anything like...that...would happen between them. Obviously.

Anyway, he hasn’t even really thought about it. Why would he? Bizarre, inappropriate thoughts just pop into his head all the time though. Overactive imagination, and all.

“Taron,” Colin says, in a tone that is absent its usual blithe playfulness. “I like you.”

“I like you too!” Taron immediately chirps back, nodding almost maniacally.

“And, please feel free to correct me if I’m reading these signals terribly wrong, but….”

“Signals?” Taron squeaks out, rusty as a hinge. He almost glances above him to see if there is, in fact, a neon sign spelling out all his thoughts.

In response, Colin steps forward, one step, two, three, suddenly looming. He has never felt particularly _short_ next to Colin, but when he comes face to face with the broad expanse of white cotton t-shirt stretched across Colin’s chest and has to look up and resist the pull of gravity that tempts him into swaying forward, their difference suddenly becomes very apparent.

Colin looks down at him, and once caught, Taron cannot possibly look away, remains stock still as Colin raises a hand and draws a thumb across the patchwork stubble of his cheek, then curls his whole large hand around Taron’s jaw, inviting Taron to press his head into his palm like an affectionate pet because he’s weak.

Maybe he does lean forward, or maybe Colin does, or the two of them in some mutual submission to physics. Taron doesn’t know how one moment he’s painfully aware of the heat and pressure of Colin’s hand and then he’s melting against Colin’s whole body, Colin’s mouth on his, lips being coaxed open, a hot tongue sliding in to lick the roof of his mouth. He’s all _feeling_ , no more conscious thought, and everything is wet mouth and tongue and soft lips and a solid, hard body, and being pinched too hard beneath Colin’s fingers, tasting bittersweet quinine, inhaling the faintest scent of fading cologne.

Colin draws away just enough to let the air cool against his wet lips, tingling, serving as a decent rousing from the stupour he’d been plunged into. The air feels heavy, his mind all lust drunk, while his body feels weightless and crackling. He wants.

And.

He’s sick. Stuck in a lift plunging several floors at once. Was he so obvious? Did he not hide it well, even from himself? 

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “It’s just a little...it’s nothing. It’s...I just admire you so much. And you’re so kind, and you are so lovely and I’m stupid and it’ll go away on its own, I promise. Maybe just stop being so...so you, and I can stay out of your hair.”

A myriad of emotions play out across Colin’s face: confusion, consternation, fear, and then, understanding. A kindness, he’s always so kind. He opens his mouth, and Taron knows he’ll let him down easy, it’ll feel like the most gentle shattering. They’ll have to have a break for a bit, just a few days, before the first blitz of Kingsman promotion at San Diego, but it should be okay, there will be others to buffer them, they don’t even have to interact all that much if they make an effort not to.

“Why would you think I don’t want you?” Colin asks.

Taron’s mouth opens and closes several times before the words will come. “Because I’m...me. And you’re you. Aren’t you just humouring me?” He’s half tempted to turn to the corner to see if anyone’s filming this as a joke.

“That would be going a bit far, even for me.”

“And you’re married, and I’d never ruin that.”

“You couldn’t if you tried. The things I want to do to you are only surpassed by the things Livia will do if she gets her hands on you,” Colin says, cupping Taron’s face with both his hands now, speaking low and full of intention. “But she promised to wait her turn, if that’s alright by you.”

“Oh.” It’s disorienting, being told this, being touched like this, murmured to like this, the way Colin’s hands move down his neck, to his chest, right above his speeding heart. The thought of Colin, and then Livia, and then his overactive imagination goes haywire into visualising them both together, and then together _with him_ , and he’s losing his sense of direction, pitching in too close again. It’s almost a shock to his system when his stiff cock brushes against Colin’s thigh. “Shit.”

In reaction, Colin lowers his hand to clutch at Taron’s arse, forcing his hips forward to grind his erection against Colin's leg until Taron’s mouth is falling open, gasping, and his full glass falls to the floor with a thud and soaks the bottoms of their trousers and shoes. “Oh, _shit._ ”

It’s already seeping into his trainers, cold and dousing, clearing his head a bit, relieving the dizzying tension.

Colin glances down between them, past the obvious bulges in their trousers to their gleaming wet shoes and the darkened carpet around them. “I’d say it was a waste of a perfectly good drink, but it really wasn’t.”

“Says you. They’re not being charged to _your_ room,” Taron mutters.

“Send me the bill.” Colin smirks, ending any further squawking by licking into his mouth again and sliding his arms around Taron’s waist to press their hips close together in shiver-inducing licks of sensation against his cock.

Now that he’s allowed, Taron touches. His hands wander anywhere they can get at: Colin’s chest and his shoulders, bonier than expected, down his slender arms, his back, his _arse_. He rubs himself all over Colin like a creature marking its territory as his lips grow insensate with kissing and he just wants to bite into Colin’s lower lip and he’s so fucking hard, he doesn’t know if he can stand it.

“Colin, _Colin_ ,” he hears, only belatedly realising it’s coming from _him_ , a variety of notes, like a song, wistful and longing and breathy, half lost between kisses and involuntary moans when Colin’s hand tips his face up so he can find a sensitive spot on his neck.

He’s clumsy with desire, his hands finally find purchase beneath Colin’s jacket and push it down his arms. Colin relinquishes him enough to let it fall to the still sopping wet floor. As if in payback, Colin’s hands find the hem of Taron's t-shirt and tug it upwards, exposing his torso to the cool hotel air.

He wants to go back to kissing, drag Colin’s attention back to consuming each other alive, but instead he feels Colin’s gaze drag down his torso like a brand. At once, his ardour cools into scorching self consciousness. Taron’s once again reminded of how he's gone all soft now: belly first, spreading up to his pecs like a gently rolling hill. He has never been mistaken for lanky, certainly never skinny. No, his frame has always been too stocky for that, easily shoring up reserves as if in permanent preparation for some long winter of scarcity.

It’s easy to joke about it and invite others to laugh as well, but Taron’s an actor. He wears all his vulnerabilities on his sleeve and bears them before millions, as if in doing so, he can harden his shell to protect all the far softer stuff underneath.

“I’ve been working on my Dad bod, as you can see,” he jokes.

But there’s an intense heat in Colin’s eyes as they rake over him, the very sort that has laid waste to a generation of women and their mothers on screen. It’s even more intense, by orders of magnitude, in person.

“You’re lovely,” Colin says. “Every part of you is lovely.”

And who is he to deny that? A shiver runs up his spine, goosebumps fanning out across his skin, bringing with them an inundation of hazy arousal. It’s never been that he could get off this much on a _look_ , but everywhere Colin’s gaze hits his body feels like fire. Worse still is when Colin steps forward again and lowers himself to his knees, slow and intentional. He’s still got his glasses on, can see it all crystal clear, and still he leans forward to nose the fine trail of hair over the round curve of Taron’s quivering stomach, plying the heat of his lips against the sensitive skin.

“I stand corrected,” Colin says, staring at his trousers with distaste. “Every part of you is lovely except your fashion sense.”

“Rude.” He can’t help laughing a little, pressing his cloth-covered prick into the column of Colin’s neck, up beneath the line of his jaw. Colin’s clever fingers scrabble along the elastic waistband of his trousers and boxers both to slide them down over his hips until his cock is freed from its confines.

“These clothes are an atrocity,” Colin mutters and doesn’t immediately take it into his mouth, just lets Taron’s cock slide against his five o’clock shadow first, then just the insides of his lips, a teasing moisture, barely there. “But I suppose I shant judge a book by its cover.”

“Glad you’re willing to look deeper,” Taron grits out, voice shakier than he'd like.

Colin pulls back just long enough to say, “I’ve thought a very long time about tasting you,” before his lips break over the head of Taron’s cock and slide down, enveloping him in body-hot heat, tonguing the underside of his prick, and then around the foreskin at its head, pushing it back and forth with his lips as he laps at the slit. He pulls Taron in with two commanding hands on his hips until the head of his cock hits the spongy-soft palate at the back of Colin’s mouth, lets him slide down the slick passage of his throat as tight muscles closing around him.

Taron makes some sort of embarrassing cry as his legs go wobbly, threatening to topple him were it not for the way Colin’s hands brace him, gripping hard enough to leave red imprints behind. His hands flutter to all that ridiculous fluff atop Colin’s head, soft as clouds, now more grey than brown. 

“God, _God_. Colin, your mouth. ‘S good for all sorts of things,” he slurs, to which Colin seems to acknowledge with a low moan that sends fantastic vibrations up his cock. It’s a kind of torture, wanting to thrust into Colin’s mouth, but held firmly in place to suffer a continuous assault of suction and teasing tongue as Colin moves up and down the length, thumbing little circles into the ridges of his hips, speeding up, sucking harder with almost brute force.

His head tips up to the ceiling, feeling his groan rumble down his throat into his chest, eyes closing of their own accord as molten fire travels through his veins and pressure builds in his cock and draws up tight in balls. “Colin, I’m close, so close. I need—can you—”

He doesn’t know what he’s trying to verbalise, just something, anything, _more_ , but Colin seems to understand anyway. One hand pries itself from his hip and slides between his thighs to cup his balls, rolling them between his fingers, then stretching a finger back to press and massage the soft skin of his taint, sparking counterpoints of sensation that coalesce into the sudden hot flash of climax, not even enough time to call out a warning, before he’s spilling into Colin’s mouth with an inarticulate cry and Colin’s just swallowing him down like a champ.

When the mind-numbing pleasure begins to recede, leaving a banging heart in his ears and a sheen of perspiration evapourating from his brow, the single stupid, dazed thought that flickers across his post-orgasm hindbrain is: _I just came in Academy Award winner Colin Firth’s mouth._

It hadn’t originally been on his list of goals and aspirations at RADA, but younger him apparently hadn’t dreamed large enough.

His mouth curves up and the hysterical giggle starts up before he can stop it, breathy and high pitched.

“I confess that’s not exactly the reaction I’d been expecting.” Colin looks up at him, puzzlement knotting at his brow and grumpiness tightening his mouth. He would have presented a fair imitation of a curmudgeonly elder were it not for his wildly mussed hair, flushed cheeks, and swollen cocksucker lips.

“I’m sorry,” Taron says in a not very sorry at all voice, biting the inside of his lip to smother any more inappropriate peals from sneaking through. “I’m just a bit...still in shock by all this. You, us. This. I want...I’ve wanted and I didn’t even dare hope for….”

At his idiotic babbling, Colin’s face softens as he turns his head and kisses the expanse of Taron’s lower belly. “I wanted you the moment I saw you. I wanted to see those lively eyes glaze over and I wanted to how red those lips would be after sucking my cock. I wanted to scrape my teeth across your jaw and hear that lovely voice moan.”

“Colin.” It’s all Taron can say, mock outrage and renewed arousal colouring his tone.

“I wanted to bend you over the nearest flat surface and fuck your pretty arse until you couldn’t sit without thinking of me for a week,” Colin continues, all posh, prim, and deep, as he rises back to his feet and herds Taron backwards, only a little clumsily with his trousers halfway down his thighs, in a gentle dance until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the mattress. It’s easy to sit, pressed down by Colin’s hands, and then to lie on his back, Colin’s weight on top of him, still wearing those jeans that scrape roughly against his still sensitised cock, making him suck a sharp breath through his teeth.

Submitting to gravity, Colin’s glasses slip a little down his nose so that Taron can meet his eyes directly. “And then I spoke with you, and came to knew you, this astonishingly talented, humble, earnest young man with a light in his eyes,” Colin continues, voice soft with wonder. “And I wanted to selfishly keep you all to myself.”

Taron blinks, feeling—suckerpunched, maybe. Laid frighteningly bare beneath that tender admission. His chest hurts and he feels perhaps a little filleted and it’s all nauseatingly wonderful too.

He prides himself on being good with words, but only someone else’s. Now, he doesn’t know what to say, how to express how much Colin means to him, how to return the embarrassment of riches he’s been blessed with. So instead, he reaches up and grabs Colin’s head to drag him down and kiss him, suck every bitter drop of himself that lingers in Colin’s mouth while arching up and pressing every inch of surface area he possibly can against his body.

Somewhere in there, Taron manages to wedge his hands between them, undoing the flies and buttons of Colin’s jeans, reaching in past the waistband of his boxers until his knuckles brush against coarse curls and wrap around the thick length of Colin’s prick, still patiently hard. It's dry and warm in his hand, only slightly damp with sweat, but Taron just palms the wet, dripping head and glides his palm back down, smoother. Colin moans into his mouth and shoves his hips forward into Taron’s hand rhythmically, an undulating rocking, until their numb lips grow sloppy and their mouths go dry from too much kissing.

Colin’s buries his face into the juncture of his neck, glasses frames digging into his skin, practically humping into Taron as his hand moves frantically, up and down, making filthy wet slick sounds beneath the rustle of fabric. His wrist aches from the awkward angle. His knuckles are started to chafe from rubbing up against rough denim. But he’s already hard again with the heady scent of sex stinging his nostrils. Even the ache feels so good.

“Oh God, I want you to fuck me soon,” Taron croaks out, swallowing, trying to wet his dry throat, carried away by the fantasy of it. “Wanna feel your cock in me, splitting me apart.” Wants to be on his knees, Colin ploughing him from behind. On his back, knees bent back and spread wide enough to make his hips hurt, being drilled. “Wanna feel you come in me, until you’re dripping down my thighs. Feel your fingers pushing every last bit back in me. Want you to keep me too.”

It gets even better when Colin finds his cock and starts wanking him off, fast and merciless. Doesn’t take much now, he’s so keyed up. Any other words dissolve into incoherent noises as Colin tenses over him with a groan into his shoulder and Taron feels hot, wet come between his fingers just as his second climax blights out all sense of reality.

He comes to moments later with a cramping hand, the heavy weight of Colin slumped over him, and a cold, unpleasant stickiness between them, but all those stupid sex-happy hormones still sputter about his brain and make him want to do equally stupid things like cling to Colin and never let go.

Colin finally rouses, lifting his head and shifting his weight off Taron to instead slump close to his side. He looks, quite appropriately, freshly fucked. Clothes dishevelled, stinking of come. His glasses are askew and promising to create an ugly indent across the bridge of his nose. His hair’s a fright. He’s got that crooked, dopey smile on his face, the one with all the teeth. “Alright,” Colin says, voice equally raspy and not a little bit fucking sexy like that.

“Alright?”

Colin presses his forehead against Taron’s, nose squashing against nose. “To your proposal. Next time.”

“Yeah?” Taron hesitates, and then can’t help tentatively adding, “All of it?”

“Every bit of it,” Colin confirms, sealing it with a practically chaste kiss. “With one minor amendment.”

“Oh?” he asks, dread starting to curl in his stomach.

“I really wasn’t joking about Livia. She’ll want to try you on for size, and then probably coerce you into a bit of domestic labour out in the vegetable garden, as you are a young, strapping lad. She’s very economical like that.” Colin’s expression is mock aggrievement. “She’ll wear you out, both in the bed and outside it, honestly, Taron.”

He doesn't know what it says about him that the thought of being put to good use makes his toes curl in the trainers he's still wearing. “Guess that means I’ve just got to sing for my supper, is it?”

“I have it on good authority you sing very prettily,” Colin says, a sneaky hand slipping down to palm his spent cock, just a gentle squeeze, and still it gives a twitch of interest. “So I suppose it’s just a matter of giving you proper motivation.”

Taron laughs and plies his disgustingly tacky hands to Colin’s back to pull him closer still, completely soiling his shirt, but he doesn’t care. Colin doesn’t seem to mind either, content as he is to nuzzle at Taron’s ear and nibble at it like a fucking horse, until it tickles too much and Taron’s got to swat him away.

Disgusting. Fucking Colin. But Taron’s just as disgustingly happy in a very unchill way.

This. This he gets to keep.


End file.
